Saturday, September 12, 2009

The washed air sparkled in the dead of nightA half moon looked at me and whisperedThe melancholic wind tossed the whispered words aroundAnd blew it on my face, unaware of my reactionI felt the moon’s whisper rather than hear itSomewhere the hibernating senses rustledIt crawled slowly over my skinAnd settled deep in every pore

The moon spoke of a word which smelt of FreedomOf roads that led to foreverOf frosty mountain air and simmering dessert sunA rain soaked earth and sun-kissed empty sandOf freshly cut grass and drying chilliesOf red roses against a white wallA calling magpie high in the skyA window looking over a valeOf playful mist whirling aboutA golden sun over a rolling meadowAnd of a road that never arrived

The distant horizon is luringAnd the feet’s begun to itchFor a journey to foreverAnd a road that becomes the home